Ninety for 90

My Aunt Addie is turning 90 in April. To celebrate this milestone, her kids arranged for each of the 90 days preceding her birthday to be marked with a unique gesture of love from one of her kin. I am one of the privileged members of my extended family to be invited to do so - and I say privileged because 1) I adore her and 2) there are waaayyy more than 90 people in my family to choose from. We are a proper and prolific Irish clan.

Aunt Addie has always been on short my list of people who I want to be when I grow up. My earliest memories of her involve big family gatherings in Madison, Nebraska, and how she and my Aunt Helen were in the center of it all, coordinating the feeding, caring and oversight and sleeping arrangements of a ton of hungry cousins.

In addition to raising large families, they were both nurses. I remember how competently and efficiently they managed the day when their mother (my Grandma McGill) had a stroke. I was in my early teens and pretty honked about not being able to play the cool organ Aunt Addie had in her house because they were trying to keep things quiet for Grandma. (Sorry, Grandma.) Once, my younger brother Steve was with her in a restaurant and they ordered coffee. When the waitress poured and Aunt Addie took a sip, the war-horse nurse in her came out when she said, "Oh, I could VOID coffee warmer than this." I think Steve spit his out when she said that, but it was such typical stuff from her. Aunt Addie kicks ass. A few years ago she went to see my Dad in the hospital. He was whining about wanting to go home. Once approved, she put him in her car and took him back to his assisted living facility, got out her walker and made the long trip to his room with him, got him settled and adjusted his catheter, grabbed her walker and made the long trek back to her car. (She later told one of my siblings that she wished his room was closer to the entrance.)

Aunt Addie was widowed early, but she pushed right on and maintained. She was the first one in the car for a trip to the casino, and still is - she loves to gamble. She makes it to family events, keeps track of who was who and does it all with astonishing humor and good grace. One of the best parts of going home to see my family is a trip to Madison to see her. I could sit at her kitchen table and listen to her for hours. She radiates wisdom, humor and good times.

My most precious memory of her is when Mom was in the hospital /hospice with pancreatic cancer. They cousins brought her out to Lexington so she could see her sister one more time and I was sitting in Mom's room when Addie arrived. Mom was pretty narc'd up at that point, but when Addie came in she raised her arms and thickly murmured, "Oh AAahhhdiiiee." Addie sat on the bed and held her little sister and talked to her, touched her face and the love was so unabashed and naked I had to look away. I've never witnessed such strength in my life. I weep now as I am writing this, remembering her grace, how she didn't lose it, she didn't cry, she just poured out such love and kindness and goodness. I'm sure she cried a river of tears later, but those last moments they had together were spectacularly beautiful. We should all be so lucky.

Back to the matter at hand - what am I going to do for my "Ninety for 90"? I thought about doing several different things, but many have already been done. She's had cakes, pies, flowers, phone calls. Chicago White Sox memorabilia, gift cards, lunches and dinner out - all kinds of great stuff. Since the economy is sour, one person minted her a trillion-dollar bill . She took it to the Senior Citizens lunch and presented it to pay for her meal. (They didn't have enough change.) Oh, and did I mention she is hand writing proper thank you notes to each of us for her gifts? She is grace personified. Wish her a happy birthday!

 

1-800-RATIONALIZE

With the multi-whammy of additional, unexpected income taxes due, an expensive major appliance "shitting the bed" (Joe's favorite saying and I've just picked it up because....it's so.... accurate), finding out the source of my knee problems is a torn meniscus and the upcoming one year anniversary of the loss of my Dad all rolling up on me.........well, I kind of had a meltdown. "Kind of" in the sense that I didn't actually throw anything (hey, I've grown. Besides, I don't wear high heels anymore and I'm out of spackle) but everything else cut loose in a peri-menopausal-chronic-pain-grieving-hormonal rage of tears, angst and depression.  My dark Irish side can throw down with the best of 'em.

So what to do?  I needed to drive.  Serious "get out of Dodge" driving. That isn't possible here because it's too congested and populated. No wide open spaces and long reaches of road and open sky.  This therapy always worked for me when I lived in Nebraska but in Massachusetts - well, it's not happening.  I still wanted to make a road trip and maybe do a little retail therapy ( a logical response to a cash-strapped crisis, right?) and pick up some Kaffe Fassett fabric I've been coveting for, oh, years.  Seriously coveting.

[caption id="attachment_2521" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="I did not buy ALL of these....just some...."][/caption]

Normally I would call my sister Pat before embarkation. Pat is the queen of rationalization.  You can call her and ask her about anything  and she will give you really good reasons to 1) do it or 2) buy it.  What I came up with would pale in comparison but I think it was pretty respectable in a dark, depressive kind of way.

Mother's Day is approaching.  I was not blessed with motherhood and my mother has been gone many years but I'm still pissed off.  She was 69. Pancreatic cancer.  (Insert "f" word here....)  Those of us with infertility and failed adoption issues have always found MD to be a trauma-inducing "holiday" that personally guts me like a fish.  When life gives you lemons, make lemonade - right?  I started thinking about all the MD presents I've never received, all the cards and flowers and - well, that adds up to some serious cash, right? So, feeling sorry for myself, I felt free to go ahead and spend a little of what my husband and/or kids would have spent.  Bingo - rationalized.

I had a lovely time at Portsmouth Fabric getting overwhelmed by bolts and bolts of amazingly beautiful fabric.  That alone made me feel better. Quilters will understand how that works.  I even had some laughs with the staff as a siren kept sounding in the distance and we couldn't figure out what it was until some guy stuck his head inside the door and said, "I think that is the siren from Seabrook!"  (Local nuclear power plant. I am not kidding.)  I stood there and thought about where I was and if there was indeed a core meltdown I'd be dead pretty fast.  Then I kept shopping.  What better place to be?  My husband and family all know I love them - we never separate without saying so - and I'm pretty much right with my Lord.... so I kept shopping and discussing (with the shop ladies) where the nearest bar with the best food was just in case it really was the "end of time" or something. I figured I'd fare pretty well at my judgement if my Mom saw me with a vodka tonic in my hand - she'd claim me in a minute just to have a sip or two. Or three.

Then I drove back home and listened to another podcast from Pray As You Go.  You have got to love the Jebbies, they come up with some really good stuff.  Anyway, I did a lot of thinking, a lot of sorting out and a whole lot of mental housecleaning. When I got home I made a new sign for my sewing room and put a copy of it in my bathroom.



It's out there.  It's all around me.  I have a feeling it would save me a lot of the time I spend worrying - AKA threading beads on a string with no knot at the end. I'm going to find joy every day.  Wish me luck. I need some joy.

PS - here is a great start.  I never watch these things but for some reason I did this one. WOW.

Caine's Arcade

I Think I .....Can't

It has been three weeks since the loss of my Dad and while the initial numbness is easing, the hard parts are not.

When in the thick of a crisis  I tend to say to myself,  "If I can just get through X, I'll be fine."  X being a tough day, a week, an event.   I have a way of breaking things up in to manageable mental bits so I don't go completely postal and/or collapse.   "If I can get on the plane and get home to my family, I'll be OK.  If I can get through the wake and visitation, I'll be fine.  That's the hard part.  No, wait. If  I can get through the funeral....the burial....the exhausting plane trip back to Gloucester....." .  I just keep making those little goals because the big one is too much to comprehend or manage. Like the little train, I keep chugging along with "I think I can... I think I can..."  but seriously,  right now, I think I can't.

I forgot about the next part.

The aftermath, the physical exhaustion, the mental grief.  Yesterday was a good example.  I am working on a grant for the local library and spent most of the day on my 7-year-old computer (AKA the *#&$^%  boat anchor) trying to wrestle down documents and cope with incompatibilities in software.  I thought I would take a break and sync up my iPad and iPod touch so I can have some commute-worthy books to listen to on the road.

As I watched one device sync I noticed a lot of songs I didn't recall buying.  HYMNS, for heaven's sake.  "King of the Road" by Roger Miller!  Then it dawned on me - I downloaded those on wi-fi at the hospital so Dad could listen to some familiar music.  Dad  loved him some Roger Miller.  I don't even know if he could hear them, but I played them for him.

Then I got an email from my brother with a copy of the death certificate. (I'm going to release the (Sicilian) hounds -  my husband -  on American Airlines for being so heartless.)  When another brother requested the family address book, I (as the keeper of the family minutia,  ephemera, and other stuff) popped open my spreadsheet and saw the list  of addresses and phone numbers.... including the ones for Dad.  Hard to look at that. I  deleted those  before I sent it along, but when I popped open the browser to get back to my email I saw the bookmark for his Caring Bridge website where we kept far-flung relatives aware of his status.  Another thing to delete.  A thousand little things that appear and sting and compound the loss. Even hearing the TV  commercial about "setting up financial arrangements before a loved one goes in to a nursing home" sent me on a brief ,  "I wonder if  Gary got the billing sorted out before Dad moves to.....oh."   A thousand little things.

Mothers Day is thankfully past, but made even  more difficult this year by falling on my Dad's birthday.  Really, world?  Seriously?  Not enough stress for one day?  Then a sister wisely pointed out that we gave them both the gift they have surely wanted for almost ten years - we gave them back each other.  (Can I get a "thank God for sisters" from the choir?)

It helped.  But it is the thousand little things that  rain like  fine, thin shards of glass and fall  without warning  on your head and your heart.  I know it will let up,  I know it will get better.  I went through this when we lost Mom, but I really did forget (or blocked out) this part, and I can't break it up into manageable bits because that is not how it works.  I push through each day. I crave sleep.  I turn on my sound machine app to a quiet rainstorm to drown out the noise of traffic and motorcycles.  I want it to be quiet. I want peace. I want to stop crying at unexpected moments and inappropriate places. I want the roller coaster ride to level off.

I do not want to do this part but I do not  have a choice. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.   Maybe someday, but I'm not feeling it now. I'm just sayin'.

Make Valentine's Day About Them

Since my Bernina is STILL being repaired  I threw in the towel and acknowledged the existence of housework.

Sunday afternoon I was watching TV and  cleaning up the kitchen when a Hallmark commercial came on and announced something like,  "This Valentines Day, it's not about I love you - it's about I love US."  Luckily I had an empty stomach and was able to suppress an urge to vomit.  I have major issues with Hallmark (details on request) mostly about how they shafted the thousands of women who made them what they are.... but I digress.   I get a little up in my head about Valentines Day, not so much for who we remember - but  about those we overlook or forget. These are the people who really spelled it out and gave us a living example of what real love means. I would like to tell you about a couple of mine.

These four women are the McGill sisters. Three of them (including my Mom, wearing Valentine fuchsia!) are no longer with us, and we had a scare with Aunt Addie this past weekend. She is thankfully home and on the mend, but it got me to thinking.  When my Mom was in her early 20's  she gave birth to a baby girl who did not live for  more than a couple of hours.  Her older sister, my Aunt Helen, was a nurse - and she wrapped up baby Mary, put her in a small box,  put on her coat and carried her down the street to the mortuary. (Aunt Helen later told  me she did it  because she couldn't bear the thought of anyone else but family touching that baby.)  My Aunt Addie (also a nurse) stayed with Mom and Dad.  Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine what it would take to do any one of those things?   I've always sent a Valentine to Aunt Addie - and not because she is all I have left of these four wondrous women and I just love her to pieces. I also honor her for what she represents - lessons of unconditional love and support.  These  four  women overwhelm me with their incredible strength and resilience.

Now meet  John and Emma Major, my paternal grandparents.  They have been gone a long time but every time I look at this picture of them it makes my eyes fill up.  They lived on a farm with no electricity for much of their lives.  Grandma gave birth to five children at home in the same bed they were conceived in.   Severe arthritis sent her to a wheelchair in her 50's.  Grandpa was the caretaker.  Tough sledding, huh. They are shown here on their 50th anniversary - and just look at how they still looked at each other.  We should all be so lucky.  Grandpa died first, and Grandma always said she wanted to die on a holiday because  "her mother died on Easter and that was a joyful day to meet your Lord."  Grandma died on Valentines Day.   While at first  it broke my heart,  I had a wise and loving sister-in-law who observed, "What better day for her Lord to reunite her with the love of her life?"

That's the kind of love I am talking about.  Not just the love we have for our significant others or our children, but for the people who gave us a living example of what it takes to meet the real demands of love.  We all have neighbors, acquaintances,  teachers or relatives who taught us great lessons about love. I'm even tempted to send a Valentine to Mark Kelley, the stand-up, gusty, loving husband of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords. We all know  it is easy to love when things are good.  It is when things get tough, or ugly, or scary  that real love manifests itself.  I am thankful to have had such wondrous examples in my life.

Sent a note or a card or a flower or make a phone call to those who schooled you in love.  Raise a glass to those gone before us.   Open up that circle of who is or isn't a Valentine in your life and you will quickly  realize you are surrounded by them.  Make  this Valentine's Day about them.

PS - At some point this week either you or someone you know will say,  "I don't need a fake holiday for me to tell people I love them, or take them out to dinner, or buy them a card and say what is in my heart."  Oh yeah?  Go ahead and throw a bullshit flag and call their bluff.   It  does not need to involve a purchase or a night out, but it does need to happen.

Just Not Feelin' it Today

Sometimes you wake up with a gray cloud over your head and sometimes you wake up IN a gray cloud.  Nothing drastic,  just an overabundance of crap.  Here is a sample:

1. Got a phone call from my NEW Bernina repair dude.  The same Bernina I spent almost $300 on getting it cleaned, the motherboard rebuilt, etc. just a few months ago is now going to cost me an additional $200 plus to get it CLEANED AND REPAIRED AGAIN.  The first dealer (who shall remain mercifully nameless until I really snap) did not wish to honor their warranty. It's a building-the-pyramids long story,  but suffice to say I'll never go back.  New Bernina dude talked my ear off telling me about all the bits and pieces and mechanisms that were maladjusted, and the fact that there was OIL AND LINT INSIDE THE MACHINE (after I brought it home the first time I used it less than half an hour before it malfunctioned) so I'm feeling like I got royally fleeced by the first repair dudes......


2. After I hung up from the 2nd Bernina dude, I burst into tears.  My husband gave me a beautiful, mushy card for Christmas that had two crisp $100 bills inside it - and I cannot for the life of me find it.  I am sick to my stomach.  It was truly a gift worthy of "The Gift of the Magi" love, and I was already SO upset about it -  so when Bernina Dude II said, "$200" I just wanted to sit on the floor and weep.  So I did.  (Except we had company for supper so I ran into the far room and had a private bit of weeping.)


3. Youngest sister spent the weekend with my Dad (in pseudo hospice) and reading her emails and reports just left me so sad, angry, bitter and heartbroken.  I have never had my faith and beliefs so tested - and I'm a freakin' cancer survivor, for pete's sake.


4. We are in the first 1/4 of a 2 day blizzard, so I lose another day of work tomorrow (most likely) and will feel that sting in the paycheck.

See what I mean?  And in the middle of all of this, Shannon from Monkey Dog Quilts has so very kindly gifted me with a "Stylish Blogger Award" !  How nice is that?   I told her I don't feel very stylish today, sitting here in my sweats and my hair pulled back with a headband.  So before I can share 8 things about myself and award it to 8 other bloggers, I'm just going to chill out and pull myself out of this funk.  Either that, or I'll make a pot of coffee and eat some bar cookies. Better yet - I'll give you the recipe.  These things are like heroin  so don't say I didn't warn you.  It is one of my favorite recipes from childhood - thanks, Mom!

BUTTERFINGER BARS

Mix together in a 9 by 13  (or whatever is close) pan:

1. 4 cups of uncooked oatmeal (the real stuff, not the instant garbage)


2. One cup of brown sugar


3. One half cup of white sugar

Melt one cup of butter (two sticks, just go with it) and pour it over the mixture, stirring it around as you go.  Then press that mixture into the pan, bake it for 10 to twelve minutes at 350.  Let it cool.

Frost with one cup of chocolate chips (melted gently in a saucepan) and add 3/4 cup of  CHUNKY peanut butter to the warm chocolate - blend together, then pour it over the cooled base.  Chill and devour.   IMPORTANT:  There are 8 ounces in a cup, and 12 ounces in a bag of chocolate chips.  I just throw in the whole bag, melt it,  and add an extra dollop of chunky peanut butter.  You get a nicer ratio of chocolate to base.  ( If you use  the word "ratio" it makes it science,  so it's okay - no guilt.)

Enjoy.  You can self-medicate with prescription drugs or you can self medicate with chocolate.  If you think chocolate is bad for you,  ask Charlie Sheen how it's all  workin' out for him......

Workshop Phobic

Well, tomorrow is the big day.

I'm leaving for a weekend workshop in New Hampshire where I am going to attempt something I have never done before.  I have never participated in any kind of "artsy" workshop.  I took a one day class in calligraphy about 15 years ago, and that was it.  Whassup with that, you ask?  Plenty.

I had the misfortune of being one year younger than my sister who actually did have some artistic talent.  I marched through junior high and high school art classes one year behind the "talented sister."   Every year  I was greeted with the same thing:  "Oh, are you Pat's sister?  Are you as talented as she is?"  And every year the teacher(s) found out the answer was "NO,"  not even close.  It's hard to shake that off.  (If you are reading this, Pat - I don't hold you responsible, but would it kill you to dust off that Bernina and get back to creating?)

At the tender age of 16 I spent a year in a walking body cast.  Consequently I am terribly self conscious and building self-esteem was not a big part of my parent's agenda.  I got through life by staying under the radar and keeping the peace.  Can you tell I am a middle child?  Once, in a grade school 4H project, I had to cover a box with contact paper.  I would have had an easier time constructing a cold fusion machine.  My mother, completely exasperated, gave up on me and let me finish the damn thing myself.  It looked horrible.  To compound my shame, I got a white ribbon on it and it was displayed at the county fair for all  to see.  There is no shame like the shame of a 4H white ribbon.  It kneecapped me.

So what is the workshop?  We are going to paint on paper, cover, then embellish, a box.  I kid you not.  I can't believe I am doing this.  So what has changed?  Not much,  other than there is a little voice inside me now that says, "why the hell not?"  I have mercifully matured to the age where I don't really care what other people think.  I  really don't need the  affirmation of strangers.  I may make a total mess of this project but it is something I want to try.  I'm happy to have reached this point in my life.  If I'd had this awareness in my 20's I'd be running Apple by now.

Of course it helps that I'm taking this with a friend who, like myself, shoots from the hip and appreciates strong adult beverages.  We're staying at her sister's house so it should be a remarkably comfortable and relaxing get-away.  What's not to love?  I will even promise to post a picture of the result, even if it does belong in my "white ribbon" gallery.  Life is short.  Let's all get out of our comfort zone and see what happens.

Seriously?

The last two weeks have been a hazy blur, and not in the good way.

Dad suffered a  series of markedly down-turning events that necessitated a very quick trip home.  As a consistent target for TSA bitches  I'm not a fan of flying to begin with - much less when the day has to begin at 3AM to catch a 6AM flight. The TSA's were manageable on the outbound flights from Boston, no hammer complexes there.

After a few days of hospital roulette (never knowing who the next assigned doctor would be, ever getting an update on some test results, or wondering if the wastebaskets would EVER be emptied) we ended up moving him to a local rehabilitation center.  For reasons known only to fans of the movie Birdcage,  I have nicknamed the place Bob Fosse.  I spent the next few days there with my sisters and brothers trying  vainly  to honor my Dad's wishes about his health care proxy.

"Fosse" is a Catholic institution that currently has 3 local priests  with a parent/patient currently in-house; consequently the place is crawling with RC priests.  I'm ok with that, my little brother is one of them.  Here is what I am not OK with:  one of them (pretty much a stranger to me no less)  took the opportunity to get all pastoral on my ass at a time when I was trying to pull myself together and say goodbye to my Dad for what well could have been the last time I will see him alive.  I told him three times I was not going to have that conversation with him right now, and that I really had to concentrate on my father.   I understood his deal,   I knew he thought he was being helpful, put he pushed back with a lengthy  fairy tale  about how " your  Dad's suffering is  not in vain, his suffering will save other souls and that when he is in heaven there will be people lined up to thank him for his suffering because he saved their souls....."    and I threw a big, red bullshit flag.

Seriously?  A line of people thanking Dad?  It sounded like a coffee shop in a bad Disney movie.  I am  RC by faith and by grace but what heaven will or will not be is not definitively known to any of us. We can hope, conjecture  and read Catherine of Siena until we are blue in the face but I believe our puny human minds cannot begin to comprehend what lies ahead.  I think it is much bigger and better than anything we could ever come up with and I am content with that knowledge.

Father Get-All-Up-In-My-Grill was shocked when  I threw that BS flag and tripled his horrifically patronizing efforts to educate me on the error of my thinking. It set off an avalanche of reprimand and judgment.  ( I was also told to go to confession.)  He started peppering me with questions, all of which I answered pretty calmly.  Here is a sample:

Father Grill:   Are you married?

ME:  Yes.

Father Grill:  Children?

ME:  No.

Father Grill:  (One eyebrow critically raised)

ME: I had ovarian cancer.

Father Grill:  Oh.  (Evidently that was pardonable)  What is your married name?

ME:  Ciolino.

Father Grill:  Ciolina?

ME: No.  Ciolino - with an O at the end.

Father Grill:  Oh, is he Italian?

ME:  No, Sicilian.

Father Grill:  (Scared look)  Ohhh, Sicilian.  Did you learn to make the pasta?   (SERIOUSLY, HE SAID THAT.    I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. )

ME:  No.  I don't have to.  My husband makes it when he wants it.

It went on longer than I ever should have permitted and he left the room wearing more skin on his body than I ever should ever have left on it.  I was angry and shaken and grieving - and all at the same time.   I refuse to dwell on it or give it any more time or thought than I already have.  Instead, I will take that experience and offer the following suggestions for visiting the sick that all of us can use:

1. Speak softly.  Noise in the sickroom is anathema.  Ditto for perfumes and well-intentioned  aromatherapy.


2. Be brief.  The family and the patient are both exhausted.


3. Be useful.  Ask  them if you can bring them water, coffee, dinner - anything. Walk the hall with them.  Anybody need to be picked up at the airport?  Anybody need a ride to the hospital?


4. Be present.  You don't need to regale them with stories of your own family illnesses and/or deaths, it isn't a throw-down.  Just be present.


5. Be honest.  Spare them the "oh wait and see, he'll be good as new in no time, " especially when that is NOT going to happen.


6. Be cognizant. It is about what they need, not what you want to give them.

I remember years ago when we lost mom and people started showing up at my folk's house with all kinds of food.  It was all home cooked and all wonderful.  Since there were about 24 of us there at the time (children & grandkids, spouses, etc.) it made meal times much  less difficult. Then, and I'll never forget this,  someone showed up with a huge box of stuff and just left it very quietly.  It was filled with big packages of paper plates, cups, napkins, rolls of paper towels.... and toilet paper.  It was the most incredible, thoughtful,  useful thing ever.  Who knew?  Someone did, and I'm happy to pass it along.  We should all be so useful.  Seriously.

52 for 52 -- Part I

To celebrate my 52nd birthday  I decided to make a list of 52 great things about being  52.  This is the first installment.  Since my birthday isn't until later in the month, I will take the luxury of time to ponder on those things that make me the happiest and do this in installments.

1. I never, ever, ever have to buy another freakishly stupid, ugly bridesmaid dress for as long as I live.


2. Ditto for shoes.   I now wear what feels good and looks a little sassy  - or lumberjack-like, if I feel like it.


3. I am  more passionate about art, color, textiles and hand-made crafts than I could ever have believed possible.


4. I still have my wool couture Channel going-away suit from my wedding, and it still looks stunning.  (I cut up the gown ages ago. Meh.)


5. When I start looking at better lingerie and feeling uncertain about my old stuff, my husband always says,  "Oh honey, just be naked - that's all I want!" and he means it.


6. I get to listen (and laugh) when my sisters talk to their children and they channel my mother. It's awesome funny.


7. I never have to sing at another wedding. Ever.


8. I have started letting go of my wedding issues - of which, obviously, I have a LOT.


9. I can still speak a pretty passable Italian - which comes in handy at the shop when Italian tourists come in and plot to get a discount and get all shaken up when I respond to them in their native language that the "Signora does not give discounts."  (BTW -  it happens more often than you'd think. )


10. I've finally stopped having that reoccurring dream where I'm on a college campus and I can't find the building or room of my next class and it is the day of the  final exam. Oh yes - and I've never been to one class.  Talk about performance anxiety - I always woke up a little nauseous after that dream.

On the Road Again

Leg # 2 of the Great American Birthday Road Trip is underway after lunch today. I managed to stimulate the economy at St. Croix Falls, Wisconsin, by leaving a few dead presidents at the local quilt shop.  Picked up a layer cake of Christmas prints by Kaufman Fabrics (Peggy Toole) - it's been years since I've bought holiday fabric, but these were just gorgeous.  I thought it would be nice to have a road sewing project to work on, and a reverse cathedral windows (hey, I'm in the zone) worked up very nicely.  Got about six bases done & pinned before we left Wisconsin, and stitched on the way to Des Moines.  Here is what I have learned about road sewing: 1) It is impossible to thread a needle in a moving car.  Period.  Luckily, I loaded up about 3 needles before I left, but I am so used to my Clover needle threader that I am incapable of threading a teeny sharp or between needle without it....bummer.  I'll load up about  3 needles  before we leave for Norfolk (Nebraska) and I will try my luck again.  Unfortunately, there are a lot of great quilt shops in and around Des Moines and I know I'll feel moved to stimulate the economy here, too, so there you go. Somebody has got to do it, darn it, and I'm willing to step up and set a good example.

Happy Landings

I'm here. The flights were survivable, and these ladies below provided my breakfast.  (The chicks will be providing something else in about 6 weeks, but you (and they) don't want to know....)  It's good to be back in the heartland, I feel the space in my head expanding considerably.   The third picture  is a trip treat for my sister, I got back with the cathedral windows thing.  I added the buttons to embellish (and hide my wonky connecting joints. Some were good, some were......well, they needed a button.  The buttons are from my mother's button stash - see, you find things to do with those buttons you can't bear to throw away!  (PS - Yes, I made one for each sister. I'm not stupid.)

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Brace For Takeoff

[caption id="attachment_452" align="alignleft" width="173" caption="Birthday Dude"][/caption]

I'm leaving (on a jet plane, as a matter of fact) for a trip home for my Dad's 80th birthday.  Good times - I can't wait to see my family.  Before I do, there is the ordeal of packing, airport security, and the actual "flight experience" itself.  I've been flying for about 26 years and I cannot tell you how much it has changed - and for the worse.  Flying used to be fun - you could pack a reasonably sized carry on bag, throw in whatever you needed in the way of shampoo, etc. and zip off to the friendly skies.

Now, it is an ordeal.

It begins with the packing.  Honest. I think I can do this with the lunch-box sized carry on that is now standard on airlines.  I'm furious that they charge to check a bag.  (What a scam.) Fortunately, I'm meeting up with my wonderful, God-given sisters along the way so I don't have to pack a blow dryer or find teeny bottles for shampoo, etc.  (heads up Pat & Peg - I'm using your stuff )  so I can pack my prescriptions, a toothbrush, and that's about it.  The other sisterly bonus is that I can wear yoga pants and a big t-shirt for most of the trip (we're doing a LOT of driving),  so I don't have to pack a lot of clothes.  Rock and roll.

The flight itself is 2 legs - you'd think Boston to Minneapolis would be a direct flight, but nooooooo.  The Boston TSA ordeal is next - never easy, or effortless. Apparently,  51 year old white females are a high terrorist risk, because I always get pulled out of line for a special screening.  (Memo to self - wear throw away sockies & bring spare pair.) Forget about bringing along some hand sewing (though I would love to) - the one or two needles (no scissors) would certainly be construed as weapons.  It does not matter that the TSA website says they are allowed - the actual TSA agents all think they are hammers, and when you are a hammer the whole world looks like a nail.  (Adam Carolla) The actual flights are next, and anyone who has flown in the past 10 years knows the drill there, so I won't go on about that.

I have reasonable hopes that I'll arrive in Minneapolis in one piece, and then begin the driving marathon.  I'm good with that - I'd rather drive than fly (no surprise there) because I love, love, l-o-v-e getting out on the plains and seeing SKY all around me, breathing clean air, looking at barns and fields and maybe see a few spring calves along the way.  It is my homeland, my people, my life source - my umbilical cord to my roots, and it needs to be renewed regularly.  I'm always calmer, refreshed, and less strung out when I return.  Happy Birthday Daddy - thanks for bringing us all home.

Uh Oh - I'm Becoming My Mother

I caught myself doing something today that I promised myself I would never do "when I was grown up and had a home of my own."  I took a shower this afternoon, and when I headed back downstairs to the main floor, I went down the stairs backwards and mopped the wooden staircase with my damp towels.  That rates right up there with brushing your teeth with one hand, and using the other to clean out the sink and wipe down the counter to remove hairspray residue.  I was NEVER going to do that. My MOTHER did that, and  it drove me nuts. I have no idea why, I just thought it was so not cool.  That kind of multi-tasking was never going to be me. But now it is - and I'm feeling a little elderly-esque. What about you?  Does this happen to everyone?

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The Ghost of Christmas Presents

I have two sisters. There  is enough crazy between the three of us to go around, but Peg takes the cake when it comes to obsessive compulsive cleaning.  This is a woman with two children, so there are some feelings involved here.  This is a picture of her family room on CHRISTMAS DAY - I left the date stamp on the picture to prove it.  She was so pleased that no traces of the holiday "clutter" were left, and that everything was neat and tidy.  ON CHRISTMAS DAY.  She emailed us the picture, just to share her holiday joy:

How messed up is THAT?  I am a reasonable person, and will admit that while everything else has been packed away, I still have a little nativity scene on my fireplace mantel.  I like it, and besides - Mary and Joseph probably hung out there for a at least a few days after Jesus was born, don't you think? Besides, January 6th is the Feast of the Epiphany - the day the wise men arrived with gifts. I'm glad the family, shepherds, animals and angel on my mantle were there to greet them!